Dumbledore slipped into the Woodland Realm under invisibility. Though he was old, he still moved with surprising agility. Avoiding Elven patrols along the way, he reached the underground cells without incident.
The moment he appeared, everyone in the expedition cried out in delighted surprise.
"Shh—shh." The old wizard blinked. "Don't alarm those Elves. Their arrows bite."
He used magic to open the locks one by one, then hugged his short-statured friends.
"Thorin—oh, let me have a look at you." Dumbledore noticed something deeply unusual about the heir of the Kingdom under the Mountain, and it made him think of Thráin—Thorin's father—once imprisoned in Dol Guldur. The same vein of madness ran in their blood.
Inside Thorin's cell, Dumbledore saw the Dwarvish script carved into the wall. "What are these?"
"A Book of Grudges," one of the dwarf warriors said. "We write down our enemies' names so our descendants remember—and make them pay."
Grudges… grudges. Dumbledore sighed inwardly. He had lived through that era—when the Muggle world lay in ruins, and the magical world was blinded by hatred as wizards slaughtered one another. Hatred was often the result of conflict, yet it also birthed greater conflict, like fire devouring the world.
The old educator didn't rush to condemn Thorin's actions. He only said, "Leaving these words here will make it inconvenient for our escape, so I'm going to wipe them all away."
Thorin looked unhappy, but he agreed.
Dumbledore flicked his wand. The carvings vanished from the wall like dust blown away by wind—gone without a trace.
No one had time to marvel at the magic, because they still weren't safe.
Even for a headmaster with profound skill, it wasn't easy to smuggle a whole pack of clumsy, heavy-handed dwarves out of an Elven kingdom without anyone noticing. This people was far too sharp; even the slightest disturbance could draw attention.
If dwarves and Elves could reconcile, this imprisonment might be resolved. But dwarves were too stubborn. Legend said the Vala who created them forged their temperament as hard as iron so they wouldn't be corrupted in an age when darkness ran rampant, and so they would keep resisting evil. Expecting them to bow was like expecting a boulder to bend at the waist.
Dumbledore needed a better plan—one that could get these short fellows out smoothly. But first, he had to draw the Elves' attention away. Otherwise, nothing would succeed.
"Dumbledore, our gear was taken by those pointy-ears," the dwarves complained.
"Then someone needs to steal it back, doesn't he?" Dumbledore looked at Bilbo—their hobbit burglar.
"B-but…" Bilbo stammered. Even a seasoned thief couldn't boast about stealing under an Elf's nose, let alone an ordinary fellow like him.
Dumbledore smiled and took an Invisibility Cloak from his pocket. "Here. Put this on—an Invisibility Cloak. But its magic is limited; it can't last forever. When you feel you need it, press the cloak and say: [Hide Me Now]."
"[Hide Me Now]."
"Oh, it really works—he vanished!" the dwarves cried excitedly.
Bilbo went. Hobbits moved without sound, and once he was hidden, even the keenest Elven archer couldn't catch his trail.
Dumbledore asked Thorin, "Does that Elven king have any particular temperament?"
"He likes gemstones. The bright, clean, shining kind. Hmph—Thranduil can't resist them, that hypocrite."
The old wizard nodded, already forming a plan. "You'll follow Bilbo's lead. I'll go draw the Elves' attention. You slip out with the burglar."
The Woodland Realm had always kept to itself, rarely receiving outside visitors. Yet today, a human magnate came calling.
He arrived in a golden carriage drawn by white horses. The shafts were studded with amber, and a massive diamond sat at the center of each wheel hub. When he stepped down, he was decked in gold and silver, vulgar to the point of offense, and his voice was even more theatrically inflated. Silk and brocade piled on him like little hills, while gemstones and pearls were like dense forests crowning those hills. With every small movement, gaudy brilliance lit up the woodland halls.
He asked the gate guards to announce him, saying he wished to meet the king.
The Elven prince received him with great courtesy.
The prince escorted the magnate into the great hall. From above, Thranduil asked, "Human—why have you come here?"
"I've come to compare who is richer. As you can see, I cherish gold and silver, I'm generous by nature, and I live without worry. I have only one wish: that everyone in Middle-earth knows my wealth is unmatched."
"Oh?" Thranduil sneered. "What is there to boast about in human wealth? Your short lives cannot leave behind much."
"Then you are greatly mistaken. True, my total fortune can't compare to the Elves' eternal treasury—but I possess one special gem that surpasses your entire estate."
"And what is so special about your gem, that you dare speak such words? If it's paltry, I will consider this an impudent provocation—and you will never set foot in the Woodland Realm again."
The human magnate produced a gemstone shaped like a many-armed starfish. At its heart, it was as if a sun were imprisoned—radiating a scorching orange-red glow that refracted and echoed through the gem's intricate facets, until it spilled outward in a warm light that made hearts waver. It seemed like the earth's own heart, like the orphaned child of some constellation. Even the legendary Arkenstone would pale beside its magic.
All who saw it praised it in awe.
Thranduil himself rose from his throne and walked down, his gaze lingering on the gemstone for a long, long time—until he couldn't speak.
The magnate declared, "If you can prove your wealth is enough to rival this gem, then I will gift it to you."
"Why?" Thranduil demanded. "You would show such kindness?"
The magnate smiled. "I have always believed wealth flows from the lowly to the exalted. If a man cannot possess all the money in the world, then he may as well possess nothing. If your wealth exceeds mine, then I'll use this treasure to make your glory shine even brighter."
Thranduil nodded. "An interesting argument." He looked around. "Open my treasury. Bring all my wealth into this hall."
Half the kingdom's guards rushed to the vaults, hauling in mountains of gold and silver, splendid tapestries, precious paintings, peerless sculptures, sacred relics from ancient ages—everything.
They piled item upon item, yet their brilliance still fell short of the warm light of Azura's Star in the human's hand. Under that glow, gold seemed to rot, silver dulled, silk faded, relics turned plain.
"If your realm has any wealth at all that can rival this, bring it. Let everyone go fetch the treasures in their homes," the magnate boasted.
So the guards and citizens of the Woodland Realm gathered in the royal hall—until the vast underground world was nearly empty.
The expedition members recovered their equipment and baggage with ease, then strolled right out the front gate of the Elven halls, climbed into the carriage waiting at the entrance, and escaped the enemy kingdom that had imprisoned them—singing songs all the while.
When the magnate saw his plan had succeeded, he put on a regretful sigh. "It seems this treasure truly cannot compare to the wealth of the Woodland Realm. Then—you may have it."
King Thranduil accepted the gem, delighted beyond measure, completely unaware the dwarves had fled. He couldn't wait to place it atop his throne, letting its gentle orange light pour down. All the Elves of the Woodland Realm looked up and praised its beauty.
But when the human magnate slipped away, the dazzling Azura's Star suddenly went dark. Then, before the Elves' despairing eyes, it fell to the ground and shattered into pieces.
Thranduil let out a horrified roar. "No—my precious!"
"The dwarves have escaped," his attendant reported urgently.
The Elven king flew into rage, jabbing a finger as he shouted, "This is definitely a dwarven conspiracy! Muster the troops—we march on the Lonely Mountain!"
At the same time, the Orc leader Azog had already gathered the armies of Mirkwood. Driven by vengeance, he mobilized his host and advanced toward the Lonely Mountain.
Deep beneath the Misty Mountains, Orcs of the underground realm—guided by some evil power—had transformed into stronger, more brutal creatures of darkness. They still seemed affected by the potion, their cheeks split by strange, fervent, manic laughter.
The Nine Ringwraiths surrounded a pale, slight king. Wearing the lost One Ring, he stood upon the throne that had once belonged to an Orc chieftain and issued orders to the wicked army:
"Go to the Lonely Mountain. Find that wizard. Take back that gem!"
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